


Only the Penitent Man Shall Pass

by TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe - Human, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Jimmy and Cas are not related, Loss of Faith, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Canonical Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, dcjbb, dcjbb2017, dcjbigbang, dcjbigbang2017, non-graphic(ish) sexual content between men, one sentence contemplation of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 16:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10970682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving/pseuds/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving
Summary: James Novak met the love of his life when he was ten, by the time he was barely thirty his life revolves around finding the next thing to help him forget that she and their daughter are dead. Then one day he breaks his usual pattern and enter one green eyed man singing in a bar bringing him home.It’s a story about all consuming loss but far more important is it a story about new beginnings and hope





	Only the Penitent Man Shall Pass

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my amazing artist [@dmsilvisart](https://dmsilvisart.tumblr.com/), who truly went above and beyond. dmsilvisart's pictures are all embedded in the story (seeing as I couldn't choose) but you should still go like/reblog/fawn over [these awesome pictures](https://dmsilvisart.tumblr.com/post/160947073723/artwork-masterpost-for-the-dcjbigbang-written-by). They're also making art for two other stories, remember to check those out, too :)  
> I can't tell how much I was blown away from the first version I got to see and how in awe I am at the final product, and I hope you, whether you read this story or not, will enjoy [@dmsilvisart](https://dmsilvisart.tumblr.com/)'s art at least as much as I do.
> 
> Secondly a big thank you to [Senna_Frost](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Senna_Frost/pseuds/Senna_Frost), firstly for suggesting the title and secondly for being willing to beta this story and making this readable for anybody not being inside my head.  
> Any and all remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Comments, kudos and constructive critism are welcome.
> 
> A final note: The idea for this story came once I paid attention to the lyrics of [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1yTyAh8IA8), which I had on repeat while writing.

  


* * *

  
  
  


_James Novak was a devout man._

He was born on a sunny Tuesday in July after several (according to his mother: grueling) hours of labor. He was an average baby in every sense of the word, from height, weight and Apgar scores to the number of feedings and hours of sleep. He and his mother spent the first four days of his life in hospital before being discharged. By the time he was two months old, he’d been baptized James Novak, something he hadn’t been all that thrilled about as he’d screamed his way through the entire service to his father’s great displeasure and his mother’s even greater distress.

Being the only child of an elderly couple who’d long since given up on ever conceiving can in some ways be even worse than being the first child of young, inexperienced parents and James Novak spent the first five years of his life being wrapped in cotton and dragged to the doctor’s office every time he so much as sneezed. But even if he wasn’t allowed to climb trees, eat mud, play with other children (there was no way Mrs. Novak would let her little angel any way near those germ-filled little monsters if she could help it) and all the other things most children get to try at least once, at least the boy never encountered a raised hand or had to question whether or not he was loved, seeing as no matter how overprotective the Novaks might be, they still managed to shower their son with love and affection.

But outside of his parents the only time he was around other people was when his parents brought him to church every Sunday and afterwards had him attending Sunday school, which meant that by the time he started kindergarten – a few months after his fifth birthday – it was with a wide-eyed and excited attempt at running towards the kind smiling woman and the gaggle of children behind her, struggling against his parents’ tight and fearful grip on his hands, eager as he was to test out those new and unfamiliar grounds. The boy hardly noticed the tears on his mother’s face or the sheen in his father’s eyes, already absorbed in a game with his new friends the way only small children are truly capable, leaving the adults to fend for themselves in the sea of parents, kids and teachers alike.

-

Little James loved being away from his parents, not because he didn’t love them (he did) or because they treated him badly (they didn’t) but because he was suddenly allowed to do all the things he’d never gotten to do before without warnings about being careful or downright forbidden to do it; to a child used to having only himself to play with and the dampening of ever present grownups, it was a marvelous thing to be almost entirely and exclusively surrounded by other children, to meet new imaginations and enter their fantasy universes and at the same time getting the opportunity to share his own, allowing them to grow and become even more evolved than he’d ever be able to manage alone.

-

In school he became part of the large, invisible middle group on the social ladder; his peers might not know his name but they’d apologize if they ran into him. He wasn’t allowed to play sports – his mother had from the beginning claimed he was far too delicate for strenuous activities – had no interest in art or music and even though he’d had his eyes set on the math club, his parents convinced him it would be better to focus on his actual school work, especially since he was still active in their church community; and if it came with the added bonus of him still spending most of his time at home with them, nobody thought that was cause for complaints.

Amelia Gibson and her parents moved into the neighboring house the year James turned ten and while his and hers parents struck up a tentative acquaintanceship based on them having children of the same age and attending the same church, the kids themselves formed an instant connection resulting in them spending as much time together as possible; something which was made significantly easier with James’ parents being willing to spend time with Amelia’s, with the added benefit of the Novaks slowly loosening the iron grip they had on their son.

He and Amelia spent most of their time together on either’s bedroom floor or at either set of parents’ kitchen table doing their homework and talking about every little thing that popped into their heads; they weren’t just mere friends but each other’s confidantes.

They told each other everything, nothing too small or too big and everything they couldn’t tell their parents or any other adults. Some days she’d tell him about crushes or insecurities, the way some of the girls whispered about her behind her back and he’d do his best to reassure her; other times he’d be the one who’d tell her those things and she’d return the favor as best she could.  
Once, when they were almost sixteen he’d told her he was afraid he was wrong, some kind of evil inside him manifesting itself in lustful thoughts about other boys (he’d never had any qualms when they were about girls, but he’d been taught that these _new_ , barely realized thoughts were the Devil’s work), and she had held him for hours letting him cry and babble incoherently and when he’d exhausted himself, she declared in her firmest tone that there wasn’t anything wrong with him or his thoughts, though she advised him to keep it a matter between him and God and not mention it to the vicar nor their parents as they most likely wouldn’t agree.

In the end, it didn’t matter as they remained nothing more than thoughts and she surprises him when she asks him to go to the homecoming dance with her as her date, and they’re together for the rest of high school, effectively putting a lid on any thought he’d might’ve had on anybody else.

College is a daunting experience and James is grateful he gets to experience it with his best friend. He and Amelia soon fall into their usual pattern of studying together, though instead of doing it laid out on one or the other’s bedroom floor, these days they have to meet up at the library, where they soon find their own perfect spot with room enough to spread out their books and papers, equally far from the shelves with the material either of them need and secluded enough that nobody will complain when they talk in hushed whispers, bouncing ideas off of each other for their upcoming assignments.

He didn’t mean to blurt out the question – there had been dinner reservations and a ring waiting for him at a jewelry store – but he’d been near ecstatic with passing his midterms with flying colors and seeing Amelia’s equally happy smile had been enough for his brain to bypass every plan laid and simply ask her then and there to marry him. She’d laughed at his shell-shocked expression when his words registered to himself and then proceeded to kiss him breathless in an unusual display of affection (they were standing in the middle of the quad surrounded by what felt like tens of thousands of people) before pulling back slightly and nodding with a soft smile. It hadn’t been anything like he’d imagined or hoped for, but somehow was even better than that, especially with the almost deafening sound of the crowd cheering and applauding when they realized the blonde girl had agreed to the dark-haired guy’s sudden proposal.

They went home that summer to tell their parents the happy news and the days flew by rediscovering every one of their childhood hang-outs in the new, astounding light of being engaged. There were late night strolls and ice cream eating interspersed with both sets of parents boasting about their successful children and questions about a date for the upcoming wedding. There were trips to the beach when the days grew too warm to stay home and dinners in little restaurants and home cooked meals; it was the beginning of a life together and the end of their adolescence, finally taking the first small steps into adulthood and right then and there they’re unstoppable – immortal.

The wedding happens a few years later, when they’re both halfway through college. Mrs. Novak and Mrs. Gibson having planned the whole thing as a surprise when they come home for the summer that year, though there’s a suspicious lack of surprise in Amelia’s excited exclamation when they’re presented with the good news. Not that James is going to complain, mind you, he’s far too busy getting caught up in his wife-to-be’s cheerful smile to be upset with their meddling mothers.

The sun’s shining and James is waiting nervously at the altar wearing the best suit he owns, tugging at the cufflinks wondering if maybe all of this is an elaborate dream; maybe he drove himself into an exhausted coma studying for that midterm and these last few years have been nothing but an elaborate dream his mind has conjured for him.

And then the organ peals and Amelia – the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen – is walking slowly towards him with a bright smile on her face, kissing her father’s cheek before moving to stand next to James; the vicar droning on and on about things that James would normally care a great deal about, but now can’t seem to spare even an ounce of his attention, so caught up as he is in the fact that soon, so very soon, they’ll walk out of here with their arms interlinked as newlyweds.  
He can hear their mothers’ happy crying before the vicar clears his throat rather pointedly and he manages to mumble out the obligatory ‘I do’; Amelia’s voice, however, is strong and sure as it fills the nave and it’s all too much and his throat closes up and a tear escapes his eye, rolls down his cheek to land on his lip only to be transferred to hers when the vicar pronounces them husband and wife.

It feels like most of the townspeople have congregated at the church this day and it takes a while before they’re able to escape all the congratulations and words of advice they have for them. Amelia, because she’s grace incarnate, smiles at and converses with each and every one of them, while James is far more preoccupied with the feel of her white dress against his skin where his hand is resting on her waist, too busy counting her eyelashes and watching the way her eyes crinkle in genuine happiness; the difference of the curve of her mouth when she smiles at others as opposed to when she turns her head a little to smile only at him. They laugh at him, they must with how besotted he is, but right now he couldn’t care less.

-

When asked, James would always say that the happiest day of his life was the day the Gibsons decided to move in next door, promptly followed by his wedding day. However, the day he holds his newborn daughter for the very first time, they’re knocked down to the third and fourth best day respectively (the second best being the day Amelia presented him with a positive pregnancy test; there’d been tears, he’s not ashamed to admit as much). The child is all wrinkly, red skin with a head full of black hair, still wet and with a smear of blood the nurse missed when wiping her off, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen; his heart growing too large for his chest and it feels like he’s bursting at the seams with happiness looking from his daughter to his pale and exhausted wife and back to his daughter again.

Having a baby who doesn’t really sleep that much during the night, a wife who’s gone back to finish her degree, not to mention a brand new position as a curate is the new reality James has to navigate. He brings the child – Claire, they baptize her, as she is the brightest thing in their lives – when he makes house calls, soon discovering that the simple, unconditional joy a baby possesses is sometimes a greater relief than thoughts of god and eternity; it’s an easy way to start a conversation when the topic on the parishioner’s mind often is heavy and serious and words are difficult to form to describe them. Claire’s toothless grin gives them something else to focus on, a chance to gather their thoughts or distract them from them while somehow making James seem more approachable when he enters their homes in full ornate.

When he ascends the pulpit to preach on Sunday mornings Amelia and Claire are right there in the front row, listening intently to the message he tries to convey to his congregation; painting a picture in words of a forgiving and wondrous god, a message of love and understanding that drew him to the church in the first place, made him feel welcome in a way he wants others to feel and is what made him choose this particular path for himself.

When Amelia graduates and later gets a job that keeps her out of the house for several hours of the day he keep bringing Claire with him as often as possible and when neither of them can have her with them, they hire a babysitter rather than enrolling her in kindergarten.

Amelia’s the one tending the garden surrounding the vicarage and she’ll bring Claire with her to give him peace and quiet to work on his sermon and other duties. In the beginning their daughter stays in her carrycot, lulled to sleep by the fresh air and her mother’s soft singing as she engages in weeding, planting and the like, but as the baby grows older she gets to crawl around getting grass stains and dirt on her clothes, experiences the joy of sinking her hands into mud, digging up earthworms and trying to eat them. When she learns to walk she becomes even more of a menace, even though all her attempts to destroy the garden are met by her mother’s exasperated smiles and her father’s proud ditto. And once she has any kind of finer motor function she’s put to work, happily pulling weeds and flowers alike from the earth’s grip under Amelia’s watchful eye and then proudly gifting the whole lot to James when the toddler thinks he should come play, too.

-

It’s less than six months of taking his daughter to school, somewhere between her first and second loose tooth, right before the garden blooms and he and Amelia will sit on their porch with their arms around each other that James Novak’s world goes up in flames.

Jimmy Novak is a pain filled shell of the man he used to be, born from the fiery hell of twisted metal and the rancid stench of alcohol on hot breath; Jimmy is a raw throat of hopeless screams at a lifeless representation of a holy figure made of mahogany and skillful craftsmanship; he’s torn up knuckles where human flesh proved to be weaker than man-made brick; he’s the beginning of cirrhosis and a cesspool of bacteria waiting for just the right one to spark the reaction that will transform him from man to a walking bomb of disease. He’s long days where rain pours and the sky’s grey, alone in a sea of strangers carving at him with useless words and pitying looks; he’s even longer, lonely nights in a too large bed where the sheets have gone cold and a pillow that used to hold the faint scent of warmth and love has gone stale, burning his nose and throat when he tries to breathe through his dried out membranes.

-

He’d buried them himself, his voice sure and strong as he preached about abandonment of the earthly flesh for a place at the savior’s side, and how they’d gone to a better place embraced by the almighty father.

His hands had been steady and his eyes dry as he’d thrown dirt on their caskets with the final words of the ritual; his breath even and mouth firm as he thanked every member of his congregation for both their attendance and condolences.

That night when he couldn’t sleep, he went outside into the garden Amelia and Claire had grown, every little plant a precious, well cared for and loved thing that was now nothing but a painful reminder and a violent stab to his heart. He tore every last one of them from the earth, ripped them apart as he himself was all the while screaming curses and profanities at the heaven, before falling to his knees with tears streaming down his face and violent sobs wracking through his body.

Everywhere he goes reminds him of them, every glimpse of a woman holding a child’s hand has him chasing desperately after them only to have his heart broken when their faces inevitably are wrong and it doesn’t take long before he stops going out altogether, instead choosing to remain at home where everything might still remind him of all that he has lost but where he won’t have to chase after phantoms leaving him even more broken than he already was.

He stops answering the phone and refuses to open the door; drags himself reluctantly out of his home Sunday morning and delivers a sermon lacking his usual conviction, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth; he stays in the vestry and leaves the greetings and clean up for the parish clerk – it’s after sunset when he finally gets back and collapses on his couch where he’s tried to sleep since Amelia’s pillow stopped smelling of her perfume and Claire’s room became covered in a fine layer of dust.

For some reason, nobody cares that he shows up unwashed with bloodshot eyes and smelling like first he showered in cheap perfume and then rolled around in even cheaper whiskey, but when he ascends the pulpit one Sunday and the words coming from him are small bullets ripping through the fabric of his faith that used to gently cradle him, a denial of the existence of a caring and loving god ( _any_ god, for that matter) that he used to believe in with all that he was, that’s when they cry out in shock and uproar; he dispassionately watches them walk out the church while he’s talking – shouting really – to reach their ears even as they flee his words about the injustice of life and how it proves that god and paradise are nothing but lies, the constructs of desperate or cynical humans to be controlled or control others with; there’s nothing when it’s over, no glorious afterlife in paradise at the creator’s feet; nothing worth living for, seeing as it’s all hopeless and meaningless. Getting suspended the next day doesn’t really come as a surprise. 

Jimmy Novak is a man built around an ever expanding hole of emptiness that can’t be filled no matter what he tries; when he’s almost clear headed and hunting for the next bottle, the next warm body, the next fight, he sometimes contemplates the knives in the kitchen or the pills in the bathroom even the rope in the car he no longer drives in his near constant state of intoxication.  
He’s not even sure what holds him back; it’s not as if he believes in god anymore and as such there’s no need to follow those rules he first learned sitting on his father’s knee only to have them repeated Sunday after Sunday in a House where he no longer feels welcome – no longer believes in, either – and yet each time he reaches for one of those items with the intention of ending it all, something stops him and he leaves the house and walks towards the closest bar, where he’ll sit on a bar stool furthest away from the entrance, trying to make himself invisible at least until he’s had enough to drink to appear like a normally functioning human and the other patrons are drunk enough to believe him.

He never goes to the bar during the weekend though, rather preferring the anonymity of a crowded club where he can’t be expected to talk seeing as the music pumping from the loudspeakers is loud enough to shatter eardrums and thus not conducive for conversation; but this particular Friday where the weather perfectly mirrors his state of mind and the clouds hang low and threateningly grey, pregnant with the promise of monsoon-like rain, his feet insistently carry him by the familiar path, his hand presses down on the golden brass handle and he goes from the fresh and chill autumn air into the smoke filled space with the murmur of voices, clinking glass and – surprisingly – the strumming of a guitar followed by a low voice, warm and smooth like well-aged whiskey that gently commands attention as it softly croons, _“I hurt myself today / to see if I still feel / I focus on the pain / the only thing that’s real.”_

He wants to run, but something in the voice is nailing his feet to the floor, his head slowly turning to see a man perched on a bar stool on a small, raised part of the floor (the purpose of which he’s always wondered about), the man is clad in dark jeans and an open plaid flannel over a light grey t-shirt, dirty blonde hair falling into his eyes as he bends forwards over the instrument resting on his thighs, obscuring anything but the lower half of his face from the viewer’s gaze. As if the man can feel Jimmy’s intense stare, his head whips up and green eyes lock onto blue, drawing him closer, only to stop as the musician sends him a blindingly bright smile, showing of two rows of perfectly white teeth against full, pink lips.

It ends as fast as it began as the man bends over the guitar again, his voice gracefully transitioning into another song that Jimmy doesn’t recognize; _“sweet wonderful you / you makes me happy with the things you do / oh can it be so / this feeling follows me wherever I go,”_ the stranger’s voice wrapping around him with an almost physical weight, and for the first time since he started coming here does Jimmy take a bar stool close to the entrance under the soft light from the spotlight in the ceiling and only orders a beer rather than his customary whiskey.

It’s another half hour of songs he mostly doesn’t know but which seem even more hauntingly beautiful for it, before the green eyed man puts down his guitar to the sparse but genuine applause of the patrons; Jimmy has a hand wrapped around his still almost full beer bottle and eyes half closed in concentration trying to hear every word from the stranger’s mouth. It’s only the strong arm wrapping itself around his shoulder that keeps him from falling to the floor as warm, soft lips press against his cheek and a smiling voice whispers,  
“I’m so happy to see you.”

Another bottle’s placed in front of them and the arm’s pulling Jimmy closer to the stranger, insistently yanking until he gets the hint and gracelessly tumbles from the bar stool into the man’s firm chest punching a startled laugh from him and then a hand pressed against the small of his back leads Jimmy towards a table in the dark corner, guiding him down on the couch-like seating, the stranger sliding in, crowding him against the wall. The musician takes a long, slow drag of his beer, lids closing over green eyes in enjoyment and Jimmy’s eyes are glued to the way the man’s Adam’s apple goes up and down as the cold liquid makes its way down the man’s throat. Not until the movement stops does he raise his gaze once more locking eyes with the stranger, transfixed by the way his green eyes seem to darken as the bottle is slowly taken from his (Jimmy’s eyes drop to look) slightly reddened and wet looking lips.

There’s no telling who moves first, but there’s no denying the heat soaring through him as he opens his mouth to grant access to the stranger’s tongue, the taste of him exploding on Jimmy’s taste buds and it’s all too much or maybe in no way enough as it washes over him, sweeps him away on a wave of things he hasn’t felt for so painfully long; there’s no way to process it beyond the feeling of his skin being too tight to contain him or the way flames lick over his skin where they’re connected. Their lips and the musician’s hands making their way under Jimmy’s shirt, calloused fingers rubbing gentle circles on his skin even as the man leans closer, nips at his lower lip only to pull away with a light smile. The green eyed man’s voice is hoarse and impossibly deeper than before when he says,  
“Let’s get out of here.”

And there’s no way Jimmy’s going to argue, no time to stop for even a second and think, because if he does he’ll refuse this man who has somehow awoken something he thought was gone and instead spend the rest of his night with Jack or José, and there’s a rankling feeling or maybe an almost forgotten voice in the back of his mind breaking through the numbness of alcohol and one night stands reminding him he’s still alive and that he should enjoy it. He squashes the thought before it’s over and lets the green eyed man grab his hand and drag him from the bar out onto the street and to something even Jimmy knows is a masterpiece of a car.

They drive in companionable silence, the radio playing songs he vaguely remembers but couldn’t name even if his life depended on it. All things considered – the car, the man’s clothes, the fact they met at a bar – Jimmy didn’t expect turning onto a quiet street with nice family homes, nor did he expect the stranger to park in front of a little bungalow nestled on a lawn lined with various flowers. He still follows silently when his door’s opened, focused more on the man than on his surroundings, not wanting to see anything that might deter him from what he suspects is going to happen here. His host never turns on the light and Jimmy is grateful the curtains aren’t drawn, allowing the moon to shine through the windows to provide him with enough light as to not trip over his own feet or the furniture.

Jimmy isn’t a chaste man; he has been in various stages of undress in both private and uncomfortably public places with a variety of people, but not since he only called himself James has he been in such an intimate setting: He’s standing in a stranger’s bedroom, said stranger setting him on fire as his hands run down Jimmy’s shoulders, arms and flanks before sliding inwards where they begin to unbutton his shirt. He thinks he might want to protest, question the stranger as to what he thinks he’s doing, but all objections die before he can voice them when they’re skin to skin and it feels like something slots into place, a piece that’s been missing finally found, and the moan he lets out in surprise is swallowed by a warm mouth against his; a distracting tongue making sure he doesn’t pay too much attention to wandering hands until his naked backside suddenly makes contact with cool sheets.

Jimmy’s indignant squeak is lost to the feel of hot, wet suction around him, calloused hands exploring his skin in broad strokes and firm caresses. A tongue more talented than he’d realized swirls around his weeping head, teases along the vein while teeth scrape gently against the thin skin. There’s a hand sneaking down to his balls, gently fondling them as a finger strays to rub against his rim, never trying to make its way inside him, just providing a firm, steady pressure and he’s wound so tight he can’t even manage a warning before arching on the bed (later he will marvel at the feel of a throat constricting around him, later he’ll apologize for his rudeness) erupting into the moist cavern he’s trapped in, his mind going blank and leaving him in a silent limbo for who knows how long.

He comes to laying on his side with his head pillowed on an arm that isn’t his own and another around his waist pulling him closer to a warm, firm body before covering both of them with a duvet. There’s a hardness poking at his right cheek but before he can even consider offering a hand the man behind him simply whispers “sleep” in his ear; and it should feel weird, he thinks, but then there’s nothing for the next several hours.

It’s been years since Jimmy’s been able to sleep for more than a couple of hours, years since even that has been possible to achieve without the help of a bottle or more of Jack, after which he’d still jerk awake after a couple of hours, too tired to function but no longer drunk enough to maintain the level of numbness required to keep sleeping.  
But here – now – where he wakes slowly in small increments, one sense coming to life at a time, where he doesn’t have to fight his way through the thick molasses of sleep and the lingering effects of the alcohol, but rather he floats his way leisurely towards a plane of semi-awareness, this is where he feels rested for the first time since he became Jimmy.

The first thing he notices is the warm light on his face (sun, his mind slurs sleepily as it tries to strain closer to the source) and with a small sound of contented protest does he turn his head farther into the pillow with no intention of further movement.  
The second thing is the smell; the pillowcase smells of laundry detergent and faint traces of sun, fresh air and something he can’t quite name but is familiar nonetheless.  
The third and most startling realization (though it’s not enough to pull him entirely from the grasp of sleep) is the feel of a warm body plastered to his backside. Having all the time in the world Jimmy revels in the way a strong arm has wrapped itself around his waist, the feel of skin dusted with coarse hair warm against his own, the flat planes of what is without a doubt a man’s chest pressed against his back and hot breath against his neck tickling the hair there.

  
Somehow it all combines, transforms into hands eagerly dragging him back into oblivion and he lets himself fall, asleep once more before he registers the arm tightening its grip on him.

There’s nothing gradual about the way it happens the second time around; no slowly floating through sun-warmed honey but rather the feeling of one instant being asleep and the next being very much awake, eyes wide open and staring into nothing as he tries to figure out where he is and what might’ve woken him up. He throws away the covers and as he realizes he’s naked, the night before comes rushing back to him, highlights of the green-eyed man with the beautiful voice who made him feel flashes before his inner sight, the drive through the city before they ended up at a small bungalow who knows where, where he was dragged through rooms shrouded in darkness before ending here, on a king-sized bed with tan linens getting worked over by talented hands and an even more skilled mouth. This is when it hits him like a truck, a sense of having betrayed every promise he’s ever made and shame flooding his entire system at the exact same time the door opens and someone – definitely not the musician from the night before – steps into the room.

“Breakfast’s ready,” a deep voice rumbles, its owner seemingly not caring that there’s a naked stranger freaking out on the bed, and he’s gone again before Jimmy can gather his wits about him enough to even look at him. It does, however, at least solve the mystery as to what woke him up in the first place when the smell of bacon finally registers to his consciousness, not to mention the low murmur of voices whispering. He dresses quickly, though for some odd reason he can’t seem to find his socks and he feels uncomfortably vulnerable as barefooted, he lets his nose guide him to the kitchen.

The scene’s painfully domestic, reminds him of far too many quiet mornings where he himself was standing at the stove and Amelia was chopping vegetable for omelets; here it’s a dark haired man in a pair of white-grey, low hanging sweats and a worn t-shirt who’s flipping pancakes while the green-eyed man from the bar is watching him with an expression that kills every last hope Jimmy might’ve had that they’re just roommates.

But he’s come too far now to escape through a window like he’d contemplated doing before exiting the bedroom, so instead he makes his way to the table as quietly as he’s capable of, drags the chair from its place and gingerly sits down at the seat, not entirely sure of his welcome even if the man with his back at Jimmy has already seen him less dressed than he is now.

“Manners, Dean,” the same voice from before rumbles from the stove, prompting the musician – Dean; the name rolls around in his head, it suits him – to turn his head slightly, his green eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Jimmy sitting at the table (as if he’s forgotten Jimmy was there in the first place) before his face splits in a bright smile, that he can’t help but return with one of his own, even if it’s significantly smaller. A mug filled to the brim with coffee is carefully slid across the table followed by a sugar bowl and cream jug.

Jimmy’s hands wrap themselves around the mug on their own accord to drive away the sudden freezing cold in them and he bends his head to stare at them, not sure if or what to say here. This is so far out of his comfort zone and the feeling of shame amplifies as he sits there surrounded by the sizzling from the pans, the smell of pancakes and bacon not to mention the very vivid memory of how the green eyed man’s mouth felt against his own. He’s so absorbed in his thoughts – his shame – that he can’t help but flinch when a plate overflowing with bacon and pancakes smothered in syrup is placed in front of him, can’t bear to look up and meet the eyes of a man whose trust he’s helped betray and who yet offers him food and sanctuary, who doesn’t yell in anger but has so far been politely neutral in their limited interactions.

Jimmy eats slowly, savoring the taste of a home cooked meal while trying to ignore the scrape of cutlery against porcelain from the other two men sitting at the table with him; suppresses the urge to moan when flavor explodes on his tongue in a way he’d almost forgotten and hasn’t experienced for almost longer than he’s been trying to drink himself into the white nothingness of oblivion; fails when he takes the first bite of a perfectly shaped pancake, golden brown and thick dripping with liquid sugar, though he catches himself fast enough to muffle the sound, trying to camouflage it as a cough, rather than an obscene noise you shouldn’t let out in front of a man who’s had your genitalia in his mouth when said man’s boyfriend? husband? is _right there_.

And then a deep, low chuckle fills the room, making Jimmy’s head snap up in surprise only to actually choke on the food he’s just stuffed into his mouth, because there (next to the green eyed man across from Jimmy) is a mirror; except where Jimmy is weighed down by guilt and looks like a man who just rolled out of a bed that wasn’t his, the mirror image is laughing – pink lips stretched and parted to make way for his amusement, blue eyes sparkling with mirth, dark hair rumpled in a way that indicates careful styling rather than ‘just woke up’; and he can feel how his mouth falls open in shock, half chewed pancake almost falling to the table before he gains enough control of himself to close it again and hurriedly swallow the food only to continue gaping some more.

Like the evening before it becomes too much for him to process; emotions and half formed thoughts swirling around too fast for him to hold on to just one long enough to find out what it means. In the end he settles on the easiest solution, letting the anger win out and drown out anything else as it rises like bile, burning his throat, words spilling from his tongue like embers setting the air on fire. It’s pain and loss mixed with the feeling of having betrayed an already faded image of a saint placed on a pedestal high above his head where he can no longer reach; the very real betrayal of a man whose existence he was unaware of and who looks just like him – not just a fleeting likeness, but an exact replica that could fool even himself into thinking he was looking at a mirror – and who for some unfathomable reason isn’t angry but apparently curious as to who Jimmy is.  
And it’s too overwhelming, the whole situation and the jumble of emotions buzzing beneath his skin, everything coming to an abrupt halt as he pushes himself from the table and sprints through the rooms he notices as little as he did in the darkness, makes his way out the front door and then he runs as fast as he can, away, not knowing where he is or where he wants to go, ignoring the voices calling for him to stop; wait. There’s nothing but the way his feet hurt where the asphalt is already beginning to rip them open, the drip of blood as it wells from the soles of his feet but it can’t make its way through the haze he’s in, it isn’t enough to make him stop even if he’s running too fast, becoming short winded and his ribcage contracts painfully as his lungs try to take in enough air to sustain him as he flees.

He has no idea how long he’s been running but it all ends when he trips over an uneven flagstone, his knees connecting painfully with the concrete and his hands are scraped raw as his body brings them forward in an automatic response to his fall trying to prevent him from slamming his head against the pavement, too. The painful feeling of being so completely out of breath each inhale feels like acid burning the skin from his bones, lungs cramping as they try to expand to make room for new – more – air and then the tears, huge and long overdue do they make their way out of his eyes, down his face silently because there’s no way his abused respiratory system can spare anything for making sounds, his body shaking not only from the exertion but also the sobs wracking through him.

And then hands on his arms guiding him into a more upright, kneeling position rather than standing on his hands and knees; a pair of legs shuffling closer to him and then he’s gently moved forward, his head coming to rest against a firm chest covered by a soft t-shirt and arms are wrapping themselves around his back. He moves forward instinctively, the other spreading his legs to make room while his arms tighten their hold on him; and with finally having enough air he practically wails, getting tears and snot all over the man’s shirt, not caring for anything other than being held, feeling safe as he’s gently rocked from side to side.

He has no recollection of being lifted into a car and driven back to a small bungalow, has no recollection of being carried inside a house that still smells like bacon and pancakes nor of the way he’s carefully laid back on a bed he left less than an hour ago or the gentle press of a wet cloth against his skin and the sting of iodine; the feeling of gauze being wrapped around his feet. He never feels the way the bed dips as two more bodies lay down on each side of him or the way he subconsciously presses into their warmth as best he can.

It’s not that Jimmy doesn’t have a place to live because he does: ever since he was suspended he’s been renting a small room in a building that should’ve probably been condemned decades ago, but it has running water and electricity, a hot plate and a decent sized bathroom that he shares with neighbors he’s never seen. Besides, it’s not as if he’s ever spent that much time there anyway other than when he was already close to passed out drunk.

Somehow though after that first disastrous morning, he finds himself basically moved into the Winchester’s guestroom. He’s not sure how or why but every time he goes back to his own place the silence echoes with a voice he can’t bear to hear, making him reach for bottles that are no longer there, and he always flees back to that little bungalow as fast as humanly possible, and ever so slowly most of his belongings make their way with him, making it feel less like a guestroom and more like his own personal space.  
There are awkward introductions, with Jimmy not telling them much more than his name and the fact that he’d almost become a vicar and mentioning that he used to be married. He never explicitly tells them about a certain headstone, but he can see in their eyes that they know.

They’re an odd couple, Dean and Castiel, he can’t help but note the longer he spends with  
them. Dean’s the younger of the two, works in construction and on cars in his spare time while Cas – and to find out that had originally been Dean’s pet name for the man had made Jimmy all the more reluctant to use it, until one day the man had sat him down and practically begged him to use it, saying he didn’t like the person ‘Castiel’ had been, his face darkened in a way that told Jimmy there was history there, though he refrained from asking and simply tried to adhere to the request – holds several degrees in foreign languages and history and writes thick books about obscure subjects for a living that Jimmy has trouble understanding half the time and that brings a vacant look to Dean’s eyes whenever Cas talks about them during dinner.

Of course Dean in return will talk about something that happened at whatever construction site he’d been on that day or something else he finds worth mentioning and Cas will get the same glassy look in his eyes even as his attention remains focused on the other man.

It also means that Dean’s gone most of the day, typically leaving around six in the morning and not getting back home before five or six in the evening while Cas is almost always home, sitting in his small study that has the most cluttered desk Jimmy has ever seen and walls lined with book cases overflowing with books and texts and a plethora of things that he has no idea what might be, though there are some clearly decorative items that most likely hold some kind of sentimental value to the man. In return, it also leaves Jimmy to entertain himself and even if he manages to raid the book shelves and operate the television it’s not long before he starts taking over some of the household chores; especially cooking. Getting Cas to join him for lunch is a lost battle; even when he manages to get his look-a-like to leave his study the man brings books, a tablet or – on one memorable occasion - a dictaphone and as such it’s impossible to have any kind of conversation with him, so Jimmy resigns himself to simply leave a few sandwiches on his desk and then enjoy that the three of them can have dinner together.

Where his days might be a little lonely (though it’s nice to know there’s another human being right down the hall) the evenings are anything but. Typically, Cas leaves his study no later than three thirty and then he’ll go for a run around the neighborhood before coming back approximately an hour later, sweaty and panting but beaming; he’ll dry off and wash his hands before offering his assistance in case Jimmy needs a hand and then Cas is usually delegated the menial tasks of peeling and chopping which they do in either companionable silence or immersed in conversation, depending on Jimmy’s mood at the time. Then Dean will come home with a cheerful greeting at their lodger and a kiss to Cas’ cheek before he’ll set the table and then patiently wait for dinner to be served; it’s half an hour in which they either don’t talk or Jimmy and Cas speak in hushed tones between themselves, Dean typically closing his eyes where he sits at the table, enjoying the warmth and smells. They eat together and do the dishes together, though Jimmy more often than not is told to just sit down and relax because whoever cooks shouldn’t have to bother with cleaning.  
Sometimes Jimmy does as told, takes the time to watch them interact the same way he imagines they did before he moved into their guestroom, and when he feels particularly melancholy he can’t help the sting of feeling left out of their little bubble.

After cleanup they usually move to the living room to either watch something on the TV or play a game. Most of the time they end up on the couch, Jimmy sitting stiffly at one end and Cas curled up on the other with Dean in the middle; at some point the younger man will slump down and either land with his head on Jimmy’s shoulder and feet in Cas’ lap or the other way around, eyes half closed in fatigue but focused straight at the screen in front of them.

The first time Dean’s head had landed on his shoulder Jimmy had went completely rigid, afraid that this was the thing that would finally make Cas yell at him and throw him out on the street; not until he heard the soft snores coming from the dark haired man did he manage to relax enough to sit more comfortably, though he spent the rest of the week fearing the repercussions for overstepping his welcome. Instead when Saturday rolled around and they were once again sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a batch of waffles the Winchesters finally told him why Dean had brought him home a week earlier.

It made everything exceptionally awkward for a while as Jimmy had agreed to spend the night in the master bedroom but he’d barely made it past the threshold before he’d fled back to his own room, locking the door and refusing to come out no matter what Cas or Dean tried to say. It led to a few very tense days afterwards, with Jimmy trying to sneak around avoiding Dean and Cas and the other two men trying to give him space but it was a fairly small house, and in the end it was Cas who finally cornered him in the kitchen one morning where Jimmy had thought he’d be safe seeing as Dean was long gone for work and Cas was usually asleep or deeply into his work at that point.  
Cas poured coffee into two mugs, adding three sugar to his own and a little cream to Jimmy’s and then beckoning him to follow him to the living room, where they took their usual seats on the couch. They sat in silence for a while, long enough for the coffee to cool down enough for Jimmy to empty his mug, long enough for him to start considering maybe getting up and getting a refill before Cas started talking.

"I didn’t want you here,” the man began, his eyes darting over the room as if he was trying to keep himself calm through the familiarity of the room.  
“Not… I agreed to bring a third party into our lives, but...” his voice trailed off before he took a deep breath, looking Jimmy square in the eye for the first time since he’d run from the Winchester’s bedroom.  
“My parents,” once more he stopped then abruptly standing up and with his back to Jimmy he took off his shirt.

There was no way to contain the shocked gasp leaving his mouth; he’d never before seen Cas without a shirt (hadn’t ever thought it odd either; Dean often went without a shirt on after he’d showered but Cas remained fully clothed when being in the shared rooms, and Jimmy had simply chalked it up to a difference of personality. The sight before him made him wonder if he’d been wrong in that assumption.) and even if he made note of the smoothness of the tan skin what had bile rising in his throat was the way faint, white scars crisscrossed their way all over the man’s back, stopping midway on his shoulder blades as if they should be able to be hidden under a shirt at all times though at the same time clearly making their way past the waistline of the pants; the feel of skin beneath his own startled him enough that he pulled back the hand he didn’t know he’d reached out to rest against the other man’s back as if he’d been burnt. He was both happy and sad when Cas slipped his shirt back over his head (hiding all that skin, but _hiding_ all that skin) and then sit back down.

“My parents were deeply religious and perversely preoccupied with the very concept of sin. My father wrote bulky books on the subject, lectured people on how to live rightfully, sin free and guaranteed access past the Pearly Gates.” There was a new break where Cas seemed to collect his thoughts, his gaze far off before he shook his head slightly and continued, “He believed sin could be purged by pain and he was more than willing to provide it.”  
They lapse into silence once more, Jimmy trying to make sense in what Cas has just told him, and - more importantly - filling the large gaps with everything he might never tell; he settles for  
“I'm not your father.”  
And Cas makes a noise that’s almost a laugh, albeit slightly humorless,  
“That’s why you’re still here.”

And that makes sense in some roundabout way and they spend the rest of the day sitting there not saying another word to each other but watching episode after episode of some wildly offensive cartoon on the TV.  
Apparently they both fall asleep because suddenly Dean’s there in front of them with Chinese takeout in his hands and a hesitant smile on his face, that grows surer when both Jimmy and Cas makes room for him between them on the couch, both grabbing for the spring rolls. 

It’s not long after that Dean airs the idea of maybe they should go on a small vacation together, he can take a week off no problem and then they can load the Impala and take off; sleep in cheap motel rooms, live off of greasy diner food, see whatever tourist sight they might feel like; get away from his and Cas’ home turf where they’ll all be on foreign ground.  
Once the idea takes root it doesn’t take long for Jimmy to agree and it’s not long before the car’s loaded with their luggage and they’re off.

It turns out Jimmy and Cas have fairly similar tastes and by the third day Dean throws a fit worthy of any three year old, saying that if they insist on one more boring-ass museum he’s going to leave them right there, far from home and with barely any money. His mood doesn’t lighten until Cas parks in front of the Boot Hill museum and they can see the old fashioned buildings that look like they’ve been taken from some of the old westerns Dean loves so much and Jimmy can’t help the chuckle escaping him as Dean’s out the door even before the car has stopped completely. 

They follow at a more leisurely pace, walking close enough to each other that their shoulders sometimes brush but not so close that people stop to look at them, something Jimmy’s grateful for when Dean’s suddenly back again his eyes alight with joy and cheeks and nose red from the cold breeze, taking hold of Cas’ face before proceeding to kiss the living daylights out of him. It’s impossible not to look, especially because they normally don’t do that in front of him, and he can’t help the interest that the display stirs in him but before he can say or do anything the kiss ends and Dean’s bouncing back the same way from which he came, Cas’ ears red with embarrassment and Jimmy pushes the tendril of arousal to the back of his mind where he won’t have to think about it anymore.

They spend the rest of the day there, practically having to drag Dean with them when it closes and Cas promising him they can come back during the summer time where there’ll be even more to see and things to do and yes, they can certainly make sure to be there for the gunfight reenactments. It has the added benefit of the man not complaining when they make their way through an art museum the next day, Cas insisting on reading every single plaque and studying each piece they pass, making both Jimmy and Dean wander off from time to time before making their way back to where the dark haired man doesn’t even seem to have moved an inch.

They spend the nights in a small hotel room with three beds, talking about everything and nothing one or the other falling asleep mid-sentence and the other two keeping up conversation before they, too, succumb to sleep. The longer he spends in the Winchesters’ company the more difficult it becomes to recognize himself, and if the voice in his head that sounds nothing like his own is getting a little louder, a little more insistent of being heard, he still manages to mostly ignore it though he’ll sometimes take a few minutes to look at the picture in his wallet of a woman with a gentle smile and a child with similar features and a missing tooth.

Coming home – and there’s no other way to describe the bungalow where ‘Jimmy Novak’ has been written on a piece of paper and tacked onto the mail box below ‘Dean & Castiel Winchester’ – is every bit as nice as it was to be away and the three of them settles more peacefully in their routines.  
Dean’s still gone most of the day and Cas still remains in his study and Jimmy still reads more and watches more TV than he’s done before, but sometimes Cas will join him in the living room and sometimes they’ll talk and the older man will tell stories about meeting Dean and their lives together, sometimes they’ll talk about books they’ve read – recommendations soon making it into their conversations – or the news or the weather or that annoying neighbor who refuses to pick up after his dog or that time when some drunk guy almost knocked Jimmy’s door down not realizing it wasn’t his girlfriend’s apartment and quite irritated he couldn’t come in and sleep off his buzz.  
Sometimes they’re quiet, just sitting in the same room taking comfort in breathing that isn’t their own, and the knowledge that another human being is close enough that they’d only have to reach out a hand to touch.  
Jimmy starts to join Cas on his daily run, enjoying the repetitive movements and the sound his feet make when they connect with the concrete of the pavement far more than he’d ever thought he would, and sometimes he’ll take out a chair and listen to Dean explaining the things he’s doing when he’s halfway inside the engine of the Impala or another car or lying under it asking him to hand over tools that look even weirder than their names sound.  
And sometimes Jimmy leaves the house for the half hour walk that will bring him to the town Centre where he’ll walk around and look at the buildings and people, perhaps sit on a bench in the little park and enjoy the sun against his face and the wind in the trees (never within view of the playground though, he made that mistake once and had to call Dean to pick him up, crying his eyes out on the ride back and incapable of telling either of them why) before making his way to the store and the grocery shopping he’s promised to take care of.

It’s a morning in early summer and the birds’ warble outside his window woke him an hour ago, and ever since he’s wished he’d either be able to fall back asleep or had the courage to get out of his bed and knock on the door across from his. It’s not that he thinks he’d be unwelcomed, after all more or less subtle invitations have been extended several times over the months since Dean brought him here that first night; but even if he still can’t bring himself to accept them it doesn’t stop his hand from wrapping itself around him, when the faint noises making their way into his room has him hardening in his pajamas pants. It’s too dry and rough but it doesn’t stop him from spilling over his hand at the drawn out, breathy moan of “ _Deeaaan_ ” from the other room.  
When he wakes up again his pajamas feel like they’re glued onto his skin, tugging at his pubic hair with every move he makes forcing him to peel the fabric away carefully while trying to stifle any sound of discomfort before making his way shamefully to the bathroom, hoping he won’t meet either of the other men before he’s showered and dressed again.

He foregoes breakfast instead snatching his keys from the bowl in the hallway and then making his way to the bus stop, hoping the fresh air will clear his head. He’s nowhere closer to being clear-headed when he for the first time in months opens the front door of his apartment, dust tickling his nose making him sneeze repeatedly and he has to make a detour for some tissue to blow his nose in. It takes him far longer than ever before but at long last he’s back in his own bedroom, sitting on his own bed, desperately clutching the photograph that has been standing in a cheap frame on his bedside table for more than seven years.

It’s the very first picture he took of Claire, less than half an hour old and lying on Amelia’s chest; the infant’s eyelids half closed and her mother visibly exhausted but _beaming_ down at her newborn daughter, and Jimmy knows that all that’s keeping him in that lonely bed on the wrong side of the hall is fear.

He is afraid that one day he’d meet Amelia and Claire again and they’d both be so _disappointed_ in him, maybe not for not joining the sooner but then for the way he’d spent the time since their deaths.  
He is equally afraid he _wouldn’t_ meet them again, that every choice he’d made, every action he’d taken since that day had been one step further away from them. And of course he was scared out of his mind that he’d been right the day he’d been standing in the pulpit, screaming at the congregation that there was no such thing as an afterlife, and that it didn’t matter what he had or hadn’t done, thought, felt, et cetera, because he’d had one chance and that one chance had been taken from him by a man with rancid breath and lead in his right foot, leaving him in a limbo of indecision afraid of both action and inaction.

Jimmy isn’t sure how long he sits there on the dust covered bed clutching the slightly faded picture close to his heart, silent tears falling from his eyes in a slow but steady stream when he suddenly hears laughter; the tone so familiar even if he didn’t have that long to learn it, hasn’t heard it for so long; a glimpse of blonde strands of hair in the corner of his eye and the ghostly feel of a small body slamming into his, small arms wound around his waist, squeezing him as the sound of laughter grows stronger and when he turns his head they’re sitting there next to him.  
Amelia looks like she did so many years ago sitting in a chair in a dark corner of a library; her long blonde hair hanging in soft curls around her face, a small smile playing at her lips and her light blue eyes filled with the same warmth and love she always regarded him with; Claire sitting in her lap (even if she’s too big) her hair a few shades lighter than her mother’s, her favorite hair clip keeping her bangs from falling into her eyes – their color the perfect blend of his and Amelia’s – and smiling at him like she used to giving him a clear view of her missing tooth.

He sits there in awed silence with the tears drying on his cheeks, pinching the skin in a way that’s uncomfortable but can’t be dealt with now as he’s busy drinking in the sight of them. They’re not as solid as he would like them to be, kind of fading away at the edges; the lines a little blurry making it difficult to discern where his wife’s ghostly arms end and their daughter’s ditto begin and yet he can feel the weight of Amelia’s hand where it comes to rest against his cheek, can feel the thumb gently stroking over his cheekbone; it even has substance enough that he can take her other hand and bring it to his mouth, letting his lips brush over the skin in a tender caress, letting go to lean closer and wrap his arms around Claire, hugging her as tight to his heart as he did earlier with the picture that has somehow made its way back to the nightstand (not that he notices, because who can care for photographs when faced with a miracle), relishing the heavy weight as two sets of arms wrap around him in return.

It might be an eternity – it might only be a second – but this time he listens to Amelia’s voice in his head telling him that he can’t just be alive, he has to continue living; assuring him that healing isn’t the same as forgetting and even if their images will fade in his mind’s eye it doesn’t mean he loved them any less.  
She kisses the salt from the skin beneath his eyes, kisses both his cheeks, his lips where she lingers for a short moment before gracefully standing, her place immediately taken by Claire who throws herself at him, her arms around his neck as she hugs him with a strength no six-year-old possesses and if she’d been a little more solid he’d have trouble breathing though he’s hugging her back just as desperately, only reluctantly letting go when she squirms in his arms, watching her stand on the floor and then taking the few steps to where Amelia has reached out her hand, grabbing it and as they slowly fades away for the last time he swears he can hear Amelia’s voice whisper in his head,  
“You have to go on living, my love.”

His sleep is fitful but filled with dreams that are a mixture of past and present and something he thinks could possibly be a future if he dares reaching for it, if he can do this last thing Amelia asked of him. He wakes when the first ray of sun hits his face, the pillow damp with tears but his face dry and his heart feeling lighter than it has since he threw dirt onto two mahogany boxes. He grabs the framed photograph and never looks back as he leaves the small room behind him for the last time.

End

**A new beginning**

**Author's Note:**

> The songs mentioned are  
> Johnny Cash _["Hurt"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ur8j4xWe_44)_ and  
>  Fleetwood Mac _["You Make Loving Fun"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNPQx_Bb2Fo)_


End file.
